Tag: MOBA

The sorghum turns red and withers, the sorghum field weathers and blows away. Ju Fufu appeared on such a land. She is not a peasant woman in the countryside, but has the tenacity of the land. She shook her “popcorn pot” and the flames spread. The sound is like the roar of wild beasts in the wilderness and the hum of the fire in the countryside at night.

Her ordinary attack is not a surging windmill, but a knife-by-knife attack on daily life. The four-stage continuous slash is like the rhythm of fighting against wind and rain in the sorghum field: the first stage is steady; the second stage is strong; the third stage is explosive; the fourth stage is a cry that breaks out in the heart, and the pot is her knife. The sound of the knife is the crispest jingle in the silence, and it is also telling herself: “I am still here!”

The wind in the sorghum field presses and blows from time to time, and Ju Fufu’s dodge is like dancing in the wind. Press lightly, sprint, and then upgrade to “hot rotation”, she rotates between wind and fire. Just like footprints in the mud in the rain, she walked through the mud holding the pot, not for winning, but for living cleanly. She did not run away, but danced a dance that only the land could understand: her feet were not stained with mud, and her heart was not crushed by the heaviness.

Her fire attribute skill is a warm local accent. The rising “heat” can make people feel the heat wave just by thinking about it. The flames in the pot tore through the silence. It was not forced, but the wildfire burning in her heart. The indescribable atmosphere in the village was half free and half suppressed – her fire was an outlet for that atmosphere and a belief buried deep in the soil.

There is also the “linking skill”, like the people in the village working together to build a roof frame. She opened the pot, the fire flashed, and the people around her immediately knew: “Don’t be afraid, I’m here.” The teammates received “pursuit support” and used a pot as a bamboo stick for skewers, but cut off the enemy’s haze at the critical moment. This is not the lonely courage of a lone ranger, but the response of the village to the loyalty of neighbors. You may not share her weight, but you are willing to light the pot together.

The double-stage fall of the finishing move is the posture she has knelt in the mud, and it declares to the world: “I am still here.” The pot hits the ground, the mud splashes, and the sparks rise. It not only hits the enemy, but also wakes herself up. You think it is an attack, but it is actually her talking to herself: you will still stand up, still burn, and still persist.

Those support skills, such as “parry support” and “quick support”, are like the benches under the big tree in the village. When others fall, she will catch them. She doesn’t have lofty and generous words, but her pot speaks for her. You want her to help, but not because she wants to thank you, but because she knows that the wind will come again, and someone needs to sit back by the stove and drink a bowl of hot soup.

The most intriguing thing is the core skill: the pot still attacks automatically when she leaves. Just like when you leave home, the fire in the stove is not extinguished and the smoke from the cooking is still waiting to be burned. She may be gone, but her light and heat still remain in the village. That is a kind of life wisdom: some people may not be present, but the warmth left behind is enough to keep others alive.

Imagery, that is a series of life images. The moment you enter the battlefield, the heat is set; under high temperature, everyone can enjoy her heat; skill level +2, that is, after despising the complexity of the world, she said “I will be stronger”; the “wound” effect is the pain of ants flying into the instep of the foot in the countryside – small, but sobering. Every setting is like the context in the land, recording her growth: not only she survived, but also every smoke and fire in the countryside was lit by her.

Ju Fufu’s pot is not a cooking utensil, but more like a ritual. Working day and night and carrying the fire is the grandeur she wrote with ordinary. Who said that the countryside doesn’t tell stories? She can boil the stories with a pot of fire and boil them into people’s hearts. The crackling of the flames is like the chirping of cicadas, and like children running around in the village, with a kind of fearlessness and tenacity.

She is not a hero, just a ray of fire. But the fire can illuminate the night, dispel loneliness, and warm the haze in people’s hearts. She is so sincere and warm because the land has taught her: “Hotness will burn, and softness can only be blown away by the wind.”

After the last blow, there are still flames in the dust raised by the pot lid. She lowered the flames, but still felt that the world was not warm enough – so she lit the next furnace. Because she knew that the real heat is not in the outbreak, but in the continuation – like the straw on the land decaying into fertilizer, and growing vigorously again next year.

Her life is a highly muddy but fiery journey. The wind in the sorghum field will grow old, but the heat in the pot she lit is enough to pass on to passers-by. Just like the lights on the village streets that night, the wisp of smoke contains the dignity and warmth of human life.